BONAPARTE. 88^ 



Arenger of kings !— aye, greater than they ! 

 Had sweetest, holiest things perfumed thy way, — 



Glory — thy diadem I 

 Liberty ! — Honour 1 — names which men adore, 

 Had charter'd then thy fame from shore to shore, 



Where'er such names are found ; — 

 Not such the language which for thee had charms ; 

 Thy music was the clang of hostile arms, 



And the shrill clarion's sound ! 

 Proud— scornful of what man hath ever loved, 

 Thy soul by thirst of empire only moved ; — 



Each obstacle thy foe ! 

 Swift as the arrow, thy impetuous will 

 Flew to its mark— e'en tho' its fatal thrill 



Thro' some fond heart might go I 

 Ne'er yet the festive cup thy lips assuaged ;— . 

 Far other joys thy regal cares engaged; — 



Drunk but with royalty 1 

 Thou, like the stern sentinel under arms, 

 Beheldest beauty in her tearful charms, 



Without one answering sigh ! 



Thy love,^ — the sound of arms — the battle cry, 

 As gleamed the purple dawn resplendently : 



Thy hand no flattery knew, 

 Save when thy milk-Avhite courser's waving mane 

 Furrowed the startled dust, — whose blood-red staia 



His warlike hoofs embrue ! 



Raised to an empire — calm, unchanged thine eye ! 

 Debased — degraded — fall'n — without a sigh ! — 



Thy province abstract ! — thought ! 

 Ranging the eagle's solitary heaven, 

 An eye for earth's wide bounds, alone was given, 



With conquest — empire fraught I 

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With giant spring at once to mount the car 

 Of victory 1 — To strike the world afar, — 



Trampling kings — tribunes down ! 

 To forge a yoke, tempered by love and hate, 

 For men the rebels to their laws and state, 



In love with bondage grown I 



To be the life, the thought of one whole age, 

 To blunt the steel, and envy's feller rage, — 



The universe to shake ! 

 With the bold ensigns of thy towering fame. 

 To fight with men and gods — men, worlds thy game,— 



From such a dream to wake ! 



Fallen ! — aye fallen too from that vast height ! 

 Upon this meagre rock to stay thy flight, — 



Thou spirit of the brave ! 

 And Fate, sole deity thy soul adored, 

 Could but this miserable space afford 



Between the throne and grave ! 



Oh ! would it had been mine to mark thy mood, 

 When the dim past before thy spirit stood, 



Noiseless — as evening's blight ! 

 And when thine arms — unclasped from thy broad breaat, 

 Were on thy throbbing temples madly prest 



In horror — black as night I 



Like as the musing shepherd views his shade 

 By evening sunset on the waters laid, — 



Free from the liquid storm ; 

 Thus, in the desert of thy solitude 

 The past is nigh — and on the turgid flood, 



Appears thy giant form I 

 NO. VI. 3 F 



